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Golf is a Strange Sport
I am what many people would classify as a sports widow. With cable and all the sports channels now available, that means that I am widowed year round. Fortunately, for me, as long as it’s not a Dallas Cowboy's football game or a Ranger's baseball game, I can usually pull him away from the TV, especially now that they are so easy to record and watch whenever you choose.
But, I have to be fair about this. My husband has often found himself on the short end of the stick when it comes to the relationship I have with my computer, and could be classified as a computer widower. I have always enjoyed being on my computer; and now that I have discovered the magical land of HubPages, he is more a widower than I ever was a widow. I keep getting pulled deeper and deeper … I fear there is no escape … and to be honest, I really hope to never escape.
But I digress.
Scantily Clad Cheerleaders
I am here to talk about sports, and even more specifically golf.
This next question is aimed mainly at the guys. When you think about sports, what is the first thing that comes to mind? Scantily clad cheerleaders, am I right? If it wasn’t the first thing, it probably was at least the second. Sports shows always zoom in on those scantily clad cheerleaders, bobbing up and down; and the guys ... well ... they're guys. When the game gets a little boring, at least the cheerleaders can add a little excitement to the game.
Once again, I digress. But I have a point I’m trying to make. I really do! (And, the more I digress, the better the word count! Shhhh! Don’t tell anyone!)
Golf is Really a Strange Sport!
So, today I was thinking about how sports and scantily clad women seem to go hand in hand. In previous hubs, I have alluded to sometimes thinking too much, and it’s true! Anyway, I was thinking about this subject. And with an evil smile on my face, out of the blue I told my husband, “Golf is really a strange sport, you know?” If you read my Silkie Chicken Saga, you know that I like to ambush him with the unexpected statement now and then. This was one of those times. This was a now and then.
Knowing me, I guess he had already decided not to waste a whole lot of time and brain cells trying to figure out what I was talking about this time, said, “Yeah, why?”
So he wasn’t going for the bait as eagerly as I had planned. I was a little disappointed with the effort, or lack of effort, he had put into even thinking about an answer to my question. But I proceeded, “It is one of the few sports where you don’t see scantily clad women. I mean, even roller derby had scantily clad women.” I don’t even know if roller derby is on any more; so don’t think about that one too hard. “If golf were a typical sport, all the caddies would be scantily clad women!” There, I said it.
“Yeah, you’re probably right.” No theatrics, no nothing. Zilch! Just, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”
While I was picking on golf, I decided to go a little further. As I think about it now, I must have been grasping at straws, because what I said next is really kind of lame. “And, you don’t have to worry about making any kind of fashion statement. Thank goodness it has changed from the loud plaid pants, but there are a few golfers that still dress …” Thinking, how do I put this mildly, and finished, “ … differently.”
“Yep,” he answers. He’s always been a man of few words, "Yep!" All I get is a "Yep!" This is quickly becoming a waste of time.
I have one more card up my sleeve, and although it's a little weak, I decide to pull it out. "And besides that, how many sports do you know where people still do it professionally while in their 50's and 60's? How can that be classified as even a sport?" Now I don't mean to offend any golfers at this point, but I am starting to get a little desperate. He's not responding to anything else, so ... I really had no choice. He made me do it!
Either I’ve lost my touch, or he was on to me earlier than usual, because he was not biting. I decide that he’s preoccupied with other things. It surely can’t be me losing my touch! Yeah, that's it! He is definitely preoccupied, because he doesn’t even respond to this one.
But I know when it’s time to retreat before I sound any lamer than I already have. (Is “lamer” really a word? Although Microsoft Word says it is, the thesaurus says it can't be found.) So once again, I decide to let the conversation drop ‘til I can find another more opportune moment to reel him in. The fun can often be in the watching and waiting.
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Copyright © 2011 Cindy Murdoch